


better after death

by Maiden_of_the_Moon



Series: love is colder than death au [3]
Category: Bartimaeus - Jonathan Stroud
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Fanfiction of Fanfiction, Feelings, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Sexy Times, and then it goes back to being mostly comedic lol, with a raNDOM INTENSE BOUT OF RELIGIOUS IMAGERY
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-19
Updated: 2020-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-12 19:00:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22796326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maiden_of_the_Moon/pseuds/Maiden_of_the_Moon
Summary: The first time Bartimaeus thinks it, he and Nathaniel are in the middle of a fight.[A fanfic for izzybusiness' "love is colder than death"]
Relationships: Bartimaeus/Nathaniel (Bartimaeus)
Series: love is colder than death au [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1638877
Comments: 2
Kudos: 23





	better after death

**Author's Note:**

  * For [izzybusiness](https://archiveofourown.org/users/izzybusiness/gifts).
  * Inspired by [love is colder than death](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21141176) by [izzybusiness](https://archiveofourown.org/users/izzybusiness/pseuds/izzybusiness). 

> _Disclaimer:_ Nope.
> 
> _Author’s Note:_ Because the world still needs more happy Bart/Nat. 
> 
> _Warnings:_ Bart/Nat. Implied sexy-time. Based on izzybusiness’ “love is colder than death” au (and the numerous conversations she and I have had about it lol). Title taken from Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s “Sonnet 43.” Quickly written and badly edited. (Seriously ugh I’m sorry I don’t feel great.) I’ve never actually read _Catcher in the Rye._ 8D;

\---

better after death

\---

The first time Bartimaeus thinks it, he and Nathaniel are in the middle of a fight. Which, if this were one of their normal “Fights,” he could sort of understand.

But no. Unfortunately, this is _not_ a patented/copyrighted/trademarked Fight-in-bunny-quotes, the sort that they periodically start with the intention of getting the other all hot and bothered. (Followed, of course, by getting _naked_ and bothered.) 

No, _this_ is a real/intense/legitimate not-at-all-fun kind of fight. The type that keeps Nathaniel from eating for hours after they’ve finished, that sees Bartimaeus holed up in the attic and working his frustrations out on a punching bag. 

Granted, makeup sex is famously best after an _actual_ argument. Bartimaeus knows that. But even if he’d been in a headspace that allowed the anticipation of such future delights, it would in _no way_ excuse what he very-nearly-almost snarls into Nathaniel’s splotchy, sneering face. 

With monumental effort, Bartimaeus swallows back the words, cringing as every knife-sharp syllable digs into the soft of his throat and _resists._

Nathaniel, no doubt coming to some very creative conclusions about the retort his boyfriend had just visibly choked down, lets lose an array of language so precise and colorful that every coloring book within a five-mile radius finds itself exquisitely completed. 

It would be impressive, really, if Bartimaeus wasn’t so _furious_.

-

Somehow, when the thought occurs again, it is both more and _less_ appropriately timed.

“No,” Nathaniel is muttering to himself, jabbing at his own reflection with a reproving finger. “_Absolutely_ not. You are smarter than this, Nathaniel Underwood. You own the braincell in this household, as Kitty would say. You know _full well_ that giving that idiot an inch is no different than giving him a mile, and so you will— under _no_ circumstances— allow him to convince you that installing hidden cameras ‘_for safety_’ is a good idea.” 

Both the real Nathaniel and his mirrored double flush an adorable cerise as they are forced to remember the agent’s earlier suggestion. The steam coming off two sets of ears gives the rain shower in the background a run for its money. 

“‘For _safety_,’” the politician grumbles again. Glowers, fiddling with the knot of his bathrobe. “Like I don’t know a euphemism when I hear one. Practically everything he says comes with an asterisk or footnote…” 

A minute passes, full of stewing, and scoffing, and a fruitless attempt at massaging away a migraine. 

“_Maybe_…" Nathaniel inhales. Exhales. Inhales again, as if loathed to do so, before he begrudgingly concedes, "—and I do mean _maybe—_… if these cameras were _actually_ for safety, we could talk. But… as it is… that tiny black dot I see in the upper-_left corner of this bathroom had_ better _be the start of a mold infestation, Bartimaeus!_” 

Elsewhere in their totally-mold-free house, Bartimaeus drops his mini monitor in favor of slapping both hands over his mouth. Plastic casing cracks immediately, but oh well— what’s a couple thousand dollars against the cost of his own life? Nathaniel is on the second floor and Bartimaeus is _merely_ in the attic; even the most muffled squeak (that the hardened agent certainly does _not_ make) might give him away. 

Or, rather, might “reveal his location.”

That’s all. 

Of course, “reveal his location” is what Bartimaeus means. Obviously. The end. Haha, what else could he have _possibly_ “given away?” Only that, surely. Right? 

Right.

-

“R-right… Just a— a bit to th— oh _Christ_…!” Nathaniel wails, muffling a keen behind crisscrossed wrists. The arch of his back as it lifts off the bed evokes in Bartimaeus memories of half-forgotten cathedrals: of vaulted gothic ceilings and ornate marble ribbing. This is a holy place. Fittingly— oh, _perfectly_ fittingly— the agent is on his knees, worshiping, praying, seeking absolution for his many, many sins.

Sweat anoints; fingers twine; stigmata is bitten into a wine-red pulse point. Nathaniel’s lashes flutter like something angelic, each beat dislodging tears, but Bartimaeus need not see his stained-glass eyes to know the moment they start to glitter with oncoming rapture. Religious ecstasy is imminent. 

Look, there’s a reason Bartimaeus can’t play Hozier in polite company anymore. 

“Yes… _yes_, please— _please_ keep…” Nathaniel whimpers, gasping, gossamer consonants ripping on the flat of his white teeth. His pleas are deformed, almost unrecognizable; his lips are the same, so swollen by delicious bruises. “Oh, _oh_— ohhh, right _ther_— r-right— ri…! …—_ah!_”

“_Jesus—_!” 

The sight of Nathaniel coming _untouched_ slams through Bartimaeus’ pleasure centers like a metaphorical sledgehammer. Or possibly a literal one, considering how braindead his own orgasm leaves him. Bartimaeus reels, his insides turning outsides turning upside down turning over, and suddenly _he_ is the one on his back, teeth having ripped his own gasping, gossamer whimper into nihility. 

_Thank God for that._

As his lover’s eager tongue cleans the remnants of an unheard confession from the inside of his mouth, Bartimaeus believes, if fleetingly, in divine grace.

-

Nathaniel is trying to be romantic. Bartimaeus is trying not to be a jerk.

Both are struggling. 

“Since you always make food for me,” Nathaniel says, shoving a breakfast plate in the agent’s direction. For his part, Bartimaeus can’t tell if his boyfriend’s embarrassment stems from his own attempts at being nice, or from how badly he has fucked up making _toast_. Bartimaeus has seen more appetizing charcoal. 

“Oh… gee, Nat. You, er… shouldn’t have.” 

“By which you mean you wish I hadn’t.” 

_Damn, he’s good_. Sheepish, apprehensive, and not yet caffeinated enough to deal with this, Bartimaeus looks from Nathaniel to the pile of congealed black ash and back again, debating whether it would better to taste it, or to wait a few million years for it to become a natural diamond. 

“…I think,” he finally concludes, “that you may have just discovered for yourself the secret way to kill someone with bread.” 

His boyfriend’s glare is amplified by his dorky glasses— like a magnifying glass would a sunbeam. Its heat strikes Bartimaeus square in the chest, setting alight the ants that he is convinced are marching along his nerve endings. He struggles not to look like a man whose very essence is ablaze as Nathaniel takes to sulking behind his morning paper. 

“Whatever. You don’t have to eat it if you don’t want to.” 

“Nah, I will. I’ve been building up an immunity to noxious bread, like the Dread Pirate Roberts did iocane. Besides,” the agent reasons, plopping into the seat beside his petulant boyfriend, “_anything_ can be gagged down with enough jam on it.”

He winks. Twice, for good measure. Nathaniel remains unimpressed. 

“We’re out of jam.”

And here Bartimaeus was thinking that _he_ was a bad liar. He frowns, bemused. “We’re not.”

“Fine. We’re out of _toast_ jam.” 

_Ah._

“Meh. No bother,” Bartimaeus decides, moving to stand again. “Where are we stashing the sex jam? I’ll use that, instead.” 

Cutlery clatters and porcelain sings when Nathaniel’s fists drop to the table, the paper between them crumpled beyond all hope of legibility. His face flares, so vibrant in his mortification that Bartimaeus half-expects the kid to ignite like a matchstick. Which would be bad. Given their proximity, if nothing else; the agent has no desire to leave this conversation with third-degree burns. 

“Would you _please,_” Nathaniel hisses, “_stop_ calling it that? It’s _disgusting._” 

Bartimaeus shrugs, remembering something Queezle once said about relationships and compromise. “All right. No skin off my— well. How do you feel about ‘butt jam,’ instead?” 

“Jesus Christ.” 

“Oh, _c’mon_, Nat.” Dismissive and unperturbed, the agent rolls his eyes, watching as his boyfriend buries his face in his palms. “You know as well as I do that the jam _itself_ is clean. At least, the stuff in this most recent jar is. We already finished off that bottle where we stuck my—”

“If you finish that sentence,” Nathaniel interrupts, “you and I are getting a divorce.”

Bartimaeus does _not_ finish that sentence. Neither does he finish the breath he had been taking. He blinks instead. Feels his knees become a different sort of jelly. Wonders at the uncoordinated cha-cha going on inside his ribcage. 

Then, delicately, Bartimaeus clears his throat and points out, “We’re not even married…?” 

Nathaniel slides his hands just low enough to reveal disheveled bangs, askew spectacles, and wide, somber eyes. 

“Bartimaeus,” he articulates, decisive. Slow. “I _will_ marry you for the sole purpose of divorcing you. Don’t you _dare_ put it past me.” 

Bartimaeus wouldn’t. 

And in that instant, the thought that had been percolating in the back of Bartimaeus’ mind during the course of this entire conversation suddenly and _violently_ bubbles up— emotions threatening to boil over and out of him as they would the pot of an abused coffee maker. His throat blisters; his stomach smolders. 

Desperate not to make a mess of things, the agent slams both pieces of dry toast into his mouth and promptly chokes.

-

There is one good reason— and one good reason only— to have over three dozen throw pillows decorating a bed. And that reason is in the pillow’s name.

“Surrender!” Bartimaeus demands, pelting the pseudo-fort that Nathaniel had constructed from eiderdown and cushions with pillow after pillow after pillow. Feathers fly; sheets ripple. A dark head peeks out from behind a plush shield, his expression far more imperious than ought to be possible, given the rumpled state of his pajamas. 

Honestly, _no one_ should be able to exude authority when the over-stretched sleeve of their boyfriend’s ratty old t-shirt keeps slipping down their arm, but Nathaniel has always had a way of defying expectation. 

“I’m sorry, Bartimaeus,” he sweetly sneers, “I didn’t hear an ‘I’ in that submission…?”

“And you never will,” the agent smirks, pretending not to taste that very word where it’s been living— _waiting_— with a few choice brethren on the tip of his tongue.

-

Due in part to the time he has spent watching Nathaniel brush his teeth, and get confused by push/pull entrances, and scrub Ptolemy’s messes out of their carpets, Bartimaeus is prone to forget just how _intimidating_ his boyfriend can be. How absolutely feral— how dangerously predatorial: lithe and purring and as cunning as a jungle cat.

The comparison shouldn’t surprise him; someone _did_ once pay to have Nathaniel hunted, the ex-assassin reminds himself. Hell, no doubt Nathaniel still has rivals who want to see his head mounted on a wall. 

Understandable, really. Bartimaeus would _also_ like to mount Nathaniel on a wall.

_Or be mounted myself. I’m not picky._

Lungs empty, thighs shaking, the M15 agent stares at the fist that is currently white-knuckling the doorknob. _His_ fist. Oh boy. While the hall of this wing of the ministry is, right now, miraculously empty, Bartimaeus knows that it will not stay that way for long. 

So. 

Step one: release the doorknob. C’mon. _Make your fingers do the thing that allows them to relinquish stuff,_ Bartimaeus orders himself, lips twitching. Other parts of him twitch, too. _One_ part hasn’t stopped twitching since today’s stupid interdepartmental meeting began. _God dammit, me, your mastery of doors is supposed to be one of the things that sets you and Natty apart. Prove that now._

Valiantly, Bartimaeus attempts his best Elsa impression. 

But he lets nothing go. Doesn't even loosen his pinkie finger. Because realistically, if Bartimaeus untenses _anything_ for even a single moment— 

_Fuck._

This is a bigger challenge than “slipping” (read: “bumbling desperately”) from the office had been. If his former life as a killing machine had taught Bartimaeus anything, it is that a successful escape requires _focus_. Specifically, focus on things _other_ than the delectability of one’s boyfriend. And Bartimaeus can’t seem to do that, right now. The best he can manage is to hone in on the slick, slippery grind of his palm against—

_Abortabortabort—!_

Abort, stop, nope, nah-uh, it’s no good. Even with hard wood— _it’s a_ door _call it a_ door— between them, Bartimaeus can see nothing but the wicked curve of the politician’s smile, the confidence illuming his piercing blue gaze. It is a heady thing to be close to Nathaniel when he is in his element; Bartimaeus feels half-drunk from a mere twenty minutes in his presence, head spinning from the sweet intoxication of _power_ that wafts from him like the finest of colognes. 

“Precisely as I predicted, Ms. Whitwell,” his boyfriend has continued on the opposite side of the door, the emphatic tap of a manicured nail muffled by plaster and oak. He is using his smoothest, silkiest voice, the one that reminds Bartimaeus of a Bond villain. Except, you know, _competent_. In his mind’s eye, the agent envisions Nathaniel lounging in his velveteen armchair— casual as a king— as he crosses one svelte leg over the other and coos, “A pity you didn’t think to heed my advice sooner. Ah well, never mind. I’ve got a handle on things and shall take it from here.” 

_Fuckfuckfuuuck._

“I _wish_ you’d get a ‘handle’ on things,” Bartimaeus complains, just loudly enough to quiet what he is really, _truly_ thinking.

-

Briefly.

Because that’s the rub, as it were; Bartimaeus is notoriously _bad_ at shutting up. Even in his own head. Try as he might, these thoughts of his refuse to keep quiet. Worse— and _weirdly_— they refuse to _stay put_. It’s maddening. No matter how deeply Bartimaeus tucks the words into the folds of his brain, they invariably break out and make a run for it at the most unexpected times. 

Weirder still, it’s not just his _mouth_ they’ve been trying to escape to. 

Bartimaeus, like most people, wants to believe that he isn’t crazy. His life? Sure, _that’s_ been insane. But him? Bartimaeus of Uruk, Rekhyt of Alexandria, Necho of Jerusalem, Sakhr al-Jinni of Al-Arish, N'gorso the Mighty, Wakonda of the Algonquin, and the Serpent of Silver Plumes? No. And yet— as much as he hates to admit it— this is one of those phenomena that sounds like absurdity when he attempts to explain it, despite the fact that he has only ever explained it to _himself._

Because— well. The thing is… Bartimaeus can _feel_ this thought. 

_Feel_ it. Intense and confusingly nonverbal outside the confines of his skull, the thought traverses the map of his body like the glowing dot of a tracking device. 

Sometimes, its light radiates from the hand into which Nathaniel drops a random item: new shampoo, or Ptolemy’s leash, or an umbrella when it’s meant to rain. Other times, it lingers in Bartimaeus’ ears, rather like their questionable harmonies during shower karaoke. With some frequency, the sensation concentrates on the knee that Nathaniel brushes during their Netflix binges; once, after flopping into his boyfriend’s lap in a ploy for attention, it had gently spread across Bartimaeus’ scalp, spiraling like the ringlets that Nathaniel had played with. 

Usually, though, its heat centers around the agent’s heart, pulsing like a star on the cusp of going nova. 

Bartimaeus muses over the implications of this, looking up from his game of bejeweled.

“Hey. Nat?” 

“Hmm?” Sitting beside his boyfriend in bed, Nathaniel turns a page in whatever super-boring political non-fiction he’s rotting his brain with now. His glasses are on, their lenses slightly smudged; his skin is still damp with the moisturizer that Rebecca gifted him for Christmas. There’s a blot beneath his chin that he had failed to properly spread, and it’s a wondrous thing for Bartimaeus to realize that— if he wanted to— he could reach out and smooth it and Nathaniel would _let_ him. He wouldn’t even _flinch._

The agent scowls, tentatively touching his breast. Had he said nova? He meant _super_nova. 

“I think,” Bartimaeus announces in the gravest of tones, “I might spontaneously combust.” 

“Hmm,” Nathaniel hums again. Flips another page. Yawns. “Well. Just don’t do it on the sheets. They’re worth more than your life.”

He reaches out, then, to stroke Bartimaeus’ hair. 

Bartimaeus has never felt so _warm._

-

“What do you mean, _fanfiction?_”

“We’re public figures, Nat,” Bartimaeus shrugs, glib as he shows the webpage off to his baffled boyfriend. “Practically celebrities. And let’s face it, people are strange. They write strange things. Ever heard of Chuck Tingle?”

Nathaniel doesn’t answer. Which is, in itself, an answer. “There are eighteen stories archived here for ‘Brother/Sister Folgers Commercial?’” 

“Maybe don’t look up what’s been done to fast food mascots,” the agent suggests, watching with delight as his boyfriend does exactly that. “Anyway, the _point_ is, congratulations are in order! If ao3 is anything to judge by, you’re far more popular than Devereaux— he only has two stories written about him.” 

Bartimaeus waggles his eyebrows. His boyfriend’s expression remains flatter than the iPhone upon which he scrolls. 

“Wow,” Nathaniel drones. “Lucky me.”

“I think this will really help you when it comes to marketing future campaigns,” Bartimaeus adds, the politician’s exasperated glare bouncing off him like a bullet does Kevlar. (Well, perhaps not Kevlar. Concrete, maybe. At the right angle.) In a masterful display of those same theatrics that had won him the lead in a musical that he dares not speak of or acknowledge, Bartimaeus throws one arm around Nathaniel’s shoulders and uses the other to wipe away invisible tears. “Ahhhh, just think, Natty m’boy. Think of the possibilities! The free publicity! The memes! The sheer lack of respect! And none of it would have happened if I hadn’t moved in with you.” 

A snort. 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Nathaniel murmurs, punctuating this indecision with a swipe of his thumb. His eyes have narrowed in that way they often do when he is perusing something of interest; the furrow in his brow reminds Bartimaeus that he needs to ask Rebecca where she got that moisturizer. They’re nearly out. “Most of these stories were inspired by a need to resolve real-life tension, and we would have had _tension_ regardless.” 

“Ooo, sounds to me like someone needs to do a search under ‘domestic fluff.’” 

“_You’re_ a ‘domestic fluff.’” 

“Which you’d never have realized if I _hadn’t_ moved in with you.” 

“No, I strongly disagree. You’re far more obvious than you think.” 

“And _you’re_ more difficult,” Bartimaeus counters, in that haughty way one does when they have been unjustly (albeit correctly) called out. “Admit it— you’d never have let yourself be wooed unless it was from the convenience of your own bedroom.” 

“Oh, I was already getting there. You didn’t have to Stockholm Syndrome me into anything.” Nathaniel starts to chuckle, only to pause. Wince. “Jesus Christ, there’s an honest-to-God Stockholm Syndrome _tag_ on this one.”

Huh. So there is. 

“Well, there you have it,” the agent reasons, as if in mock-defense of the author’s work. “Some things can’t be left up to chance.”

“But have you read the chances they _would_ have us take?” Bartimaeus’ boyfriend blanches, indicating a few lines of highlighted text. “I think doing _this_ would put out one or both of our backs.” 

“C’mon, now! That’s a Kama Sutra classic.”

“Just because something is classic, doesn’t mean it’s _good_. Have you ever read _Catcher in the Rye_?” 

“Is this your way of telling me that you _can’t_ do The Triumph Arc?” 

“The real triumph would be managing that nonsense without breaking anything,” the politician shudders. Methodically, he returns to flicking at the screen— down, then up, then down again— skimming until he notices something. Something a few paragraphs prior to the story’s _climactic finish_ (pun intended). 

His lips purse in approval. 

With the elegant gravitas of a man selecting a $10,000 bottle of wine, Nathaniel points to the passage in question and decrees, “We could try this, though.” 

It takes a minute for the offer to register. Another for Bartimaeus to realize that he is gawking. Because the whole point of sharing this ridiculous online discovery was, of course, to have a little fun; to tease his easily flustered boyfriend, then pretend until his dying day that he wasn’t reading these stories himself, wasn’t using them on nights when Nathaniel couldn’t escape work and he was sad and _missed_ him. 

And yet, here Nathaniel is, seeing through all that. Beyond the jokes and the wit and Bartimaeus’ ever-droll façade to the often-humiliating _truth_ of him, to his heart and soul and secrets: to the scared bits and the nervous parts and the longing and the loneliness and the— 

“I love you,” Bartimaeus says. _Blurts_, really— out of nowhere. 

Except.

Well. After all this time, after so much _thought_, it really can’t be considered “blurting,” can it? And it definitely isn’t out of nowhere. 

_Fuckfuckfuck_. Bartimaeus' cheeks flame so brightly, he worries about setting off the smoke alarm when Nathaniel smiles. When Nathaniel pinks. When Nathaniel brushes a curl behind his ear and drawls, “I think that’s the Stockholm Syndrome talking.” 

It’s official: Bartimaeus has a new, least-favorite trope. 

But then Nathaniel laughs— freely, and genuinely, in that way he only ever does when he’s with Bartimaeus— and kisses away the agent’s offended moue. 

“I love you, too.”

\---


End file.
